Inside
Arborlon, in their quarters,
Newt was rather busy. He'd spent much of the day in the forest surrounding the city, cataloging the creatures he'd found in a notebook with its spine only just broken in. There was ink just there on his nose in a black smudge that he'd not yet noticed. But, as I said, he was quite busy. He'd only just finished up feeding some of his own creatures, and he was trying to put on water for tea. About seven charms deep, with the kettle whistling over his head, he didn't notice anyone joining him right away. Instead, he summoned up a cup—one of his own, brought with him, actually—and he was distracted, thinking about some course he intended to help with. Partway through that thought, however, he was reminded of a mistake in a sketch he'd done, and he sought out his notebook as the kettle overhead began to tip boiling water into the nearby cup. "Do try not to burn me," he told the thing without any heat of his own, as he mucked about to find that bloody notebook.